"You can't do this to me."

I look down at the pitiful creature, cocking my head to the side. And a pathetic thing he is, but it's so much easier to deal with him in these forms. We look like humans, both of us - truly, sorcerers, but those often look human too. There is an unspoken rule, of sorts, about sorcerers.

We are not born. We are created. We serve our creators and we serve those higher in status and power.

But recently, it seems, all across the Otherworld - stretching from the Underground to Beelzebub's Plains - the youngest sorcerers rebel more and more. And they get away with it.

I grow sick and tired of this rebellion, this revolution. I was a slave until my master was killed by the Black Queen - the most dangerous creature in this world, they say, for after all did she not start the Great War, and wreak havoc upon the known world for several years? Had I rebelled against my master, I would have been killed without a second thought.

Sorcerers are disposable. Another unspoken rule.

Understand that I am not an evil being, no. I do not take joy in killing innocent people - but I do, it must be said, take great joy in causing suffering to those that wrong me.

My creature is a being of neutrality, or so it insists. It created a stairway, of sorts, that led to various worlds. Accessible only in the human world - and only by those that were originally from our world. I abhorred his decision to watch over humanity as well as other races.

He does not always serve me. He serves himself and he serves these pathetic mayflies that live for only eighty years or so. What is the use?

"You can't do this to me."

I look down again. I know he hates this form - this pathetic, humanoid form. But he is a pretty thing like this; slender and tall, with long hair of darkest green running like seaweed down a pale back. His eyes are silver, flecks of blue held within. High cheekbones; an angular face. In this form, he has only one mouth - fortunate, for he talks enough already.

"Oh, but I can."

The creature shakes its head and cringes. Such a proud thing around the rest of them - what would they do if they saw him now? Desperate, on his knees, almost pleading, almost begging.

There is silence for a while. I do not move. I wait. I know he will break.

"Master, please..."

"Hm? What do you want, pet?"

"Change me back."

"Why?"

I love questioning him. I know exactly why he wants to be changed back into his true form - that wonderful, majestic, four-legged beast - but he is so very reluctant to say it! He despises looking like the others. He despises being vulnerable - what power could he possibly have like this?

"Please, just do it!"

I grip that narrow chin with a snarl, pulling his face towards my own. He recoils; he knows he has overstepped the line. Slowly, I let go again.

"You forget your place."

"I--I apologise. But--please--"

"No. You will remain like this until you have proved you deserve to be changed."

I smile coldly and turn, leaving him there.

The Keeper screams my name after me, and then falls silent in desperate, caged misery.